17. The Rodeo Around Cactus Rose Ranch #3
"Depends." He moves closer, ostensibly to check my work but really just to be annoying. His scent—metal and leather and something uniquely Maverick—makes thinking harder. "Some things need hands-on attention. Others, you learn better by doing."
The innuendo isn't subtle, but I'm too focused on not dropping a tire on my foot to respond. When I finally get it mounted, aligned, and start threading the lug nuts back on, he makes a sound that might be approval.
"Where'd you learn this teaching method?" I ask, tightening nuts in the star pattern I remember from driver's ed. "The Frustrate Your Student school of education?"
His laugh is sharp but not unkind. "Foster care, actually. Twelve different homes in ten years. You learn real quick that nobody's going to hold your hand. Either you figure it out or you don't survive."
The casual delivery doesn't hide the weight of the words. I pause, wrench in hand, studying him. "That's..."
"What it is," he finishes, shutting down any sympathy before it can form. "But it taught me to be resourceful. To watch, learn, adapt. Skills that kept me alive then and keep everyone safe now."
He moves to a section of fence, running his hand along the wire. "Come here. Different lesson."
I follow, grateful to leave the heavy tire behind. My arms ache and my jeans are now decorated with grease to go with the calf-pen stains, but there's something satisfying about the physical evidence of work.
"Fence tension," Maverick explains, showing me how to test the wire. "Too loose, cattle push through. Too tight, it snaps in weather changes. Has to be just right."
His hands guide mine to feel the proper resistance, and that spark from this morning returns. Static from the dry air, maybe, but it jolts through me nonetheless. He doesn't let go immediately, his fingers wrapping around mine to demonstrate the testing motion.
"Trust but verify," he says, his voice lower now. "That's how you stay safe. Check everything, assume nothing, always have a backup plan."
"Sounds exhausting," I manage, hyperaware of his proximity.
"It is." He releases my hands, stepping back. "But it's better than being caught off guard. Than losing people because you got comfortable."
There's history in those words, trauma that shaped him like the foster system did. I want to ask, but he's already moving on, leading me to an irrigation pump that looks like it's seen better decades.
"This one's been acting up," he says, handing me a wrench. "See if you can figure out why."
Another test. I crouch beside the pump, trying to remember anything useful from high school physics. Maverick leans against a post, watching with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. The pressure makes my hands shake slightly as I check connections, test moving parts, try to think like a machine.
"Take your time," he says when I fumble a bolt. "Rushing leads to mistakes. Mistakes here could mean flooded fields or dried crops."
No pressure then. I force myself to slow down, to really look at the mechanism. There—a worn gasket where water's been seeping, mineral deposits indicating a slow leak. I point it out, explaining my reasoning, and something shifts in Maverick's expression.
"Well, fuck," he says, but he's smiling—a real smile, not the sharp smirk from earlier. "Got it in one. Took River three days to diagnose that last month."
Pride blooms warm in my chest. "Really?"
"Really." He moves closer to inspect my find. "Good eye. Most people would have gone straight for the complex problems, missed the simple failure."
We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the small scars on his hands that his investigative work left behind. Close enough to notice how his presence makes the air feel charged, dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with equipment.
"You're not what I expected," he says quietly. "When Cole brought you here, I thought... well, doesn't matter what I thought. You're tougher than you look."
"Have to be," I reply, meeting his intense gaze. "No one else is going to do the work for me, right?"
His smile turns sharp again, approving. "Now you're learning. Come on, one more thing to check before?—"
A metallic crash cuts him off. I spin toward the sound, but Maverick's already moving, putting himself between me and whatever made the noise.
His hand shoots out, pressing me back against the shed wall as a piece of farming equipment I can't identify rolls past, clearly having broken free from its moorings.
"Stay," he orders, every line of his body tense as he assesses the threat. Only when he's certain it's just mechanical failure does he relax, but he doesn't move away. We're pressed close, his body shielding mine, and I can feel his heart racing under the calm exterior.
"Just equipment failure," I say, trying to lighten the moment. "Not an assassination attempt."
"This time," he mutters, finally stepping back. But his hand lingers on my arm, thumb brushing over the pulse point. "Can't be too careful. Not with..."
He doesn't finish, but I hear what he doesn't say. Not with you. Not with someone who matters. The intensity of his protection, the way he moved without thought to shield me, says more than words could.
"I should check that," he says, but doesn't move yet. "Make sure nothing else is loose."
"Maverick?" I touch his hand where it still rests on my arm. "Thank you. For the lessons. For..." I gesture at the space where he'd protected me.
His fingers tighten briefly, then release. "Just doing my job, Boss. Keeping everyone safe." But the look in his eyes says it's more than that. Says I'm more than just another responsibility to manage.
As he goes to secure the equipment, I lean against the shed wall, pulse still racing.
Each man teaches differently, shares differently, but they all protect with the same fierce intensity.
And despite every wall I've built, every promise to keep my distance, I'm starting to feel protected in return.
Starting to feel like I belong.
Cole stands in the middle of the pasture like he grew from the Montana soil itself.
The afternoon sun backlights his broad shoulders, and even from a distance, I can see the easy authority in how he surveys the cattle.
This is his domain—not just the ranch he manages but the land he reads like scripture, every ridge and water source memorized.
"Thought I'd find you out here," I call, climbing through the fence with more grace than I managed this morning. The success with Maverick's challenges has left me feeling bolder, more capable.
He turns, and for a moment something flashes in those storm-gray eyes—heat, memory, the ghost of yesterday's kiss. Then the careful distance slides back into place, professional masks we both wear like armor.
"Good timing," he says, voice neutral. "Need to check the eastern pasture rotation. You should see how this works."
I fall into step beside him, trying not to notice how his presence makes the air feel thinner.
The field stretches before us, dotted with Black Angus cattle that watch our approach with mild interest. Cole moves through them without hesitation, one hand occasionally touching a flank or checking an ear tag.
"Rotation is everything," he begins, slipping into teaching mode. "Keep cattle in one spot too long, they'll graze it to dirt. Move them too often, the grass doesn't recover properly. It's about reading the land, understanding what it needs."
He points to a section where the grass grows shorter, paler. "See that? Three weeks ago, had twenty head here. Now it's resting, recovering. By the time we bring them back in six weeks, it'll be stronger than before."
His passion for the land threads through every word.
This isn't just a job for him—it's a calling, a purpose that runs bone-deep.
We walk the fence line while he explains water sources, drainage patterns, how weather affects every decision.
His hands move as he talks, painting pictures of seasonal changes and growth cycles.
"You grew up doing this," I observe, watching him calculate herd positions with unconscious expertise.
"Family ranch about two hours north," he confirms. "Smaller operation, but same principles. Learned to read cattle before I could read books. Thought I'd take it over eventually, before..."
He stops, jaw tightening. I wait, letting the silence stretch until he's ready.
"Firefighting seemed like a calling," he continues eventually. "Saving lives, protecting communities. Noble work. Left the ranch at eighteen, sure I was meant for bigger things than cattle and grass."
"What changed?"
He pauses at a water trough, checking levels and flow rate. "Reality. Lost my parents five years ago. Car accident on black ice—nothing anyone could have done. Suddenly the ranch I'd walked away from was gone, sold to cover debts. Made me realize what I'd given up chasing glory."
The vulnerability in his voice makes my chest tight. I want to touch him, offer comfort, but the careful distance between us feels like a wall I can't breach.
"This place became home instead," he says, gesturing to the expanse of Cactus Rose. "Different land, but the same principles. Take care of it, and it takes care of you. Everything connected, everything in balance."
We continue walking, and he shows me how to spot overgrazing, how to identify good pasture from stressed land.
His teaching style is systematic but not cold—he wants me to understand the why, not just the what.
When we reach a section of fence that needs attention, he produces tools from his pocket like a magician.
"Hold this," he says, handing me wire while he works. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and that electric current from yesterday sparks to life. He freezes for just a moment, then continues working as if nothing happened.